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The Governor's Wife

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I posted this on DA but as an experiment. I wondered if I might not write it, as in simply imply the idea rather than actually risk offending anyone sensitive enough to be outraged and bring the DA purge gestapo crashing down on me. So does it make sense? If anyone fancies it, take it anywhere you want. We're all friends on CF right? Have fun...........

The Governor was never a likeable man, avaricious, ambitious and arrogant, he’d arranged for himself the life he craved at our expense. He paid his mercenaries, his gangsters, to frighten us and divided the town into those who where with him and those who were not. We paid to be allowed a precarious, resentful peace. He was fat, uncouth and it must be said, profoundly unattractive!

So why did she marry him, this elegant, graceful creature? Was his power so terrifying that she sought sanctuary at its heart, safety where others could not go? But what safety was that? There were rumours, tales of depravity and horror hinted at in hushed tones, gleaned from traumatised young women too scared to tell the whole truth. Had his soldiers come for them while they slept?

I have her now. I have the Governor’s wife, his whore, her who sold herself. She will be judged but not by due process in the legal sense because we had no law, simply the Governor’s “protection”, something she’s now denied.

Where is he? Goodness knows. He’s fled, escaped, run if the slob he was could carry himself that fast. It only matters that he abandoned his claim to the town when the simmering discontent we suffered flared into open rebellion. We have the town now, and I have her.

She’s standing in my house, making her choice. Yes, I have given her one, not unlike the one her husband gave us. She’s shackled by the blacksmith’s worst. He took no money for his work and gleefully riveted the iron collar round her slender neck. Her delicate, privileged hands are trapped, her arms folded in the small of her back in cuffs secured by more rivets to her collar.

Her cascade of curls, the glossy mane her wealth maintained is now dull from the smoke and filth she was dragged through in the blacksmith’s shop, burnt from the fire he needed. Oh how the mighty fall! She’s still dressed, dirty and torn but sartorially intact, but I’m sure she knows time will not be kind to her. Should she stay or should she go? That’s her choice.

“Why did you marry such a brute my dear?” I ask her, meaning why would an angel as lovely as you suffer such degradation in his bed? “Was it worth all that money?” I ask, standing close to her, really close. I want to intimidate her by offending her and I’m standing toe to toe, face to face so I can see right into her defiant eyes. We‘re breathing the same breath, I can smell her as I call her “Whore”.

Her teeth are clenched, she’s trembling, through fear or hardly tempered rage? She says nothing. We stare at each other, I can feel her breasts brush mine gently as they rise and fall.

“What did he do to you?” I ask, noticing flecks of soot in the sweat on her face. Her eyes narrow. Is she suffering from pride, is she denying defeat, gambling with threat? I am threatening her.

“You wanted it didn’t you, that ordeal his evil perversion put you through?” I taste her breath, heavier now. Have I touched a nerve? “You slut.” I growl at her, watching for the flicker of understanding she won’t be able to hide.

To stay is submission, to accept a new subjugation. Does she need to hate me first, does she want to? Is he playing some dreadful game? To leave is to take her chances outside, to risk being ripped apart by the fury of those her husband oppressed.

My house is on the market square, the adjacent taverns are filling. Soon the drunkards will prowl the darkness and every one knows who she is. “Are you hoping your hero will step in to save his damsel in distress when they’ve pinned you to the ground spread wide open?” I ask her, taunting her with that certain fate. What would I find if I reached between her legs now? “They’ll thrash you raw first.” I tell her. Oh I see what that means to her!

Then I open the door out onto the square and she turns to face it, contemplating her choice for a moment. She leaves but not before we trade another heavy look into each other’s eyes. “You think dignity will save you?” I ask as she passes, terrified yet upright. I‘m astonished to see her take her place in the centre of the square to wait for her future to unfold. What does that last look back over her shoulder mean, watch me suffer? Is it “You did this to me”? Is she making her choice mine?

How long will I leave her out there?
 
She’d once been “Sweet Augusta” the tavern belle whose feminine charm sold beer like nothing else. She was worth her pretty weight in gold to the landlord and in spite of “No slap and tickle o’ the wenches”, one of the tavern’s light hearted rules pasted on the door, you could, if you were audacious enough to blame intoxication, touch her. Many did and the married ones faced domestic discord accordingly!

No one knew who fucked her. Did the landlord? No, he was married too and battle axe is too soft a description for her who kept the tavern safe. It mattered that no one knew, that Augusta was allowed to tempt and tease yet still remain sweet, untainted and desired. That is until The Governor took her.

Obviously the town’s women were often hostile and I’m sure more than one resented her lover’s distraction. Where was he when he pressed her into her bed, eyes closed, still stinking of smoke and beer? It made me smile to believe that a few had suffered the careless insult of being called Augusta in the heat of the moment! She suffered that hostility first.

They come within spitting distance and the venom they spit at her is withering. From my house I hear the joy in the anger now released, the delight in delivering the unbridled malice she's deserved for years. The Baker’s wife screams her disgust, free to at last, remembering every single roll and crumpet the soldiers had taken to feed the town hall’s gluttony.

I watch as Augusta flinches and twists, unable to defend herself, trying to turn away from the worst of the onslaught but the commotion attracts more onlookers and she’s surrounded by a circle of retribution.

Where are the soldiers now? Are they lost in the vacuum left when The Governor fled? Someone will need to restore order if anarchy reigns. Who, me?

To see properly I race up stairs to look down on the market square and notice some people nervously watching the streets leading on to it. Do they expect the sudden noise of galloping horses and authority to break up the disturbance? What authority?

As dusk fell none of the drama fades. Normally there are meals to cook, working men to feed and activity in the square thins out and disperses as the business of households takes over, but not tonight. Tonight Augusta is the town’s event.

Someone carries a bucket of water from the well in the centre of the square and throws it over her, soaking the front of her dress. The crowd cheer. “How’s that you filthy whore!” There are men now and I know, as bucket after bucket drenches her, their interest in the spectacle is not the simple vindictiveness of revenge. Augusta is alone, helpless, disgraced and at last, available.
 
She’d once been “Sweet Augusta” the tavern belle whose feminine charm sold beer like nothing else. She was worth her pretty weight in gold to the landlord and in spite of “No slap and tickle o’ the wenches”, one of the tavern’s light hearted rules pasted on the door, you could, if you were audacious enough to blame intoxication, touch her. Many did and the married ones faced domestic discord accordingly!

No one knew who fucked her. Did the landlord? No, he was married too and battle axe is too soft a description for her who kept the tavern safe. It mattered that no one knew, that Augusta was allowed to tempt and tease yet still remain sweet, untainted and desired. That is until The Governor took her.

Obviously the town’s women were often hostile and I’m sure more than one resented her lover’s distraction. Where was he when he pressed her into her bed, eyes closed, still stinking of smoke and beer? It made me smile to believe that a few had suffered the careless insult of being called Augusta in the heat of the moment! She suffered that hostility first.

They come within spitting distance and the venom they spit at her is withering. From my house I hear the joy in the anger now released, the delight in delivering the unbridled malice she's deserved for years. The Baker’s wife screams her disgust, free to at last, remembering every single roll and crumpet the soldiers had taken to feed the town hall’s gluttony.

I watch as Augusta flinches and twists, unable to defend herself, trying to turn away from the worst of the onslaught but the commotion attracts more onlookers and she’s surrounded by a circle of retribution.

Where are the soldiers now? Are they lost in the vacuum left when The Governor fled? Someone will need to restore order if anarchy reigns. Who, me?

To see properly I race up stairs to look down on the market square and notice some people nervously watching the streets leading on to it. Do they expect the sudden noise of galloping horses and authority to break up the disturbance? What authority?

As dusk fell none of the drama fades. Normally there are meals to cook, working men to feed and activity in the square thins out and disperses as the business of households takes over, but not tonight. Tonight Augusta is the town’s event.

Someone carries a bucket of water from the well in the centre of the square and throws it over her, soaking the front of her dress. The crowd cheer. “How’s that you filthy whore!” There are men now and I know, as bucket after bucket drenches her, their interest in the spectacle is not the simple vindictiveness of revenge. Augusta is alone, helpless, disgraced and at last, available.
Very nicely and deliciously told, KK. A good story :)
 
Sweet Augusta

See above KK posts to find out who she is. She's named after Augusta Leigh, the half sister of Georgian England's notorious poet and pervert Lord Byron. For an insight into their relationship I can recommend Byron in Love by Edna O'Brien, for the erotic undercurrent pervading his whole life at least. I love the idea that the accomplished, erudite and polished ladies of polite society were fascinated by him and intrigued by what he might do to them if they failed to get out of his way in time. Many deliberately didn't! That is until rumours of the ordeals he subjected his poor naive wife to in their marital bed became known as truth. 200 years hence I'm sure he'd have loved a CF account. Anyway, never mind about that.............

Our Augusta, as we say in the trade, is fucked. I've written her up to the point where she's rendered defenceless by the ironwork trapping her arms uselessly behind her back and she's surrounded by a crowd of people who have no sympathy for her whatsoever. Her delicate, fragile beauty evokes wildly conflicting emotions in those who gaze upon her peril. For some the chance to crush her, or see her crushed at the hands of others is a wicked, depraved delight but there might be others who see a different opportunity. Is there anyone in the market place tonight who'd pick up the pieces of our broken heroine in the hope she might express her gratitude in undying devotion? Well she was the Governor's wife, she'll trade herself for sanctuary!

Are you in the crowd? The scene is set, she's yours for you to write your part in her future. You have a whole market place of characters to invent so if you don't want her for yourself in the first person, you can giver her to the villains of your choosing in the third. Maybe two or more of you will come forward? I hope from here this thread becomes an open, written role play. Drag Augusta through the dust and turmoil of a fight over her, lash her to the well together as dual perpetrators of the punishment she deserves or rescue her, as the daring and dashing handsome prince you'd love to be. (What is this, Walt fuckin' Disney!)

I don't know what will happen. I'm watching from my bedroom window, the one overlooking the square. Well?
 
I would probably like to get into the mind of the Augusta character and make something up for her motivations but that is probably not what's going to drive this one forward...
I posted her on DA and so far she's been rescued by a poet horrified by the cruelty of her circumstances and rescued again by a dashing cavalry officer who wants to be her hero and have her for himself, for something. I'm thinking now that I'm going to have to step in to stop all these people trying to save her otherwise the angry townsfolk are likely to be resentful that they didn't wreak vengeance on her for her husbands sins! One of my DA correspondents called the good people of the town "A bunch of stinking peasants". I'm sure that wouldn't help.

Maybe I'll go down in the dead of night, after the angry mob have abused her, and bring her back into the house. I could make a fortune by pimping her because I think I'll discover she wants that!

How do you see her motivations?
 
How do you see her motivations?
Well one of my personal likes is making up characters who have some amount of inner conflict.... but that may not help at all in getting the story anywhere ... it's just something I like doing.

To not derail this thread I'll put my imaginations in a spoiler tag

So Augusta went from tavern belle to Governor's wife and so she knows what he did and how he ran the place. She knows him first hand and she's felt his treatment on her own body...
yes she got security, status and privilege from this and she is needful of that (perhaps security first actually) but I'd give her a conscience and she's conflicted. Over the years she has accreted layers and layers of punishment ideation ...

In the story, the governor runs away in the end, and abandons power when things get precarious, instead of trying a final crackdown and bloodbath.
Perhaps Augusta was instrumental in that, at first trying to convince him to give in peacefully ... and when that didn't work ... maybe she managed to manipulate some communications. When an authoritarian system gets challenged, sometimes it's important whether the leader thinks he can rely on his security goons or not, and if he comes to the conclusion he can't rely on them ... he'll run.

So maybe at a critical moment she cut or manipulated communications and so was actually instrumental in his rule having a quicker end than might otherwise have happened. This does assuage her conscience to some degree but still... what happened happened.

She understands of course that if she tried to tell anyone about that nobody would believe her.
She understands that for the triumphant mob she's a symbol of the oppressor, a sacrifice that must be ritually defiled.

In the story, "she passes, terrified yet upright. I‘m astonished to see her take her place in the centre of the square to wait for her future to unfold. What does that last look back over her shoulder mean, watch me suffer?"

... in a way, by keeping her secret about her contribution to the Governor's overthrow,
she's transforming her guilt into a martyrdom experience as she goes out to meet her punishment...
 
Well one of my personal likes is making up characters who have some amount of inner conflict.... but that may not help at all in getting the story anywhere ... it's just something I like doing.

To not derail this thread I'll put my imaginations in a spoiler tag

So Augusta went from tavern belle to Governor's wife and so she knows what he did and how he ran the place. She knows him first hand and she's felt his treatment on her own body...
yes she got security, status and privilege from this and she is needful of that (perhaps security first actually) but I'd give her a conscience and she's conflicted. Over the years she has accreted layers and layers of punishment ideation ...

In the story, the governor runs away in the end, and abandons power when things get precarious, instead of trying a final crackdown and bloodbath.
Perhaps Augusta was instrumental in that, at first trying to convince him to give in peacefully ... and when that didn't work ... maybe she managed to manipulate some communications. When an authoritarian system gets challenged, sometimes it's important whether the leader thinks he can rely on his security goons or not, and if he comes to the conclusion he can't rely on them ... he'll run.

So maybe at a critical moment she cut or manipulated communications and so was actually instrumental in his rule having a quicker end than might otherwise have happened. This does assuage her conscience to some degree but still... what happened happened.

She understands of course that if she tried to tell anyone about that nobody would believe her.
She understands that for the triumphant mob she's a symbol of the oppressor, a sacrifice that must be ritually defiled.

In the story, "she passes, terrified yet upright. I‘m astonished to see her take her place in the centre of the square to wait for her future to unfold. What does that last look back over her shoulder mean, watch me suffer?"

... in a way, by keeping her secret about her contribution to the Governor's overthrow,
she's transforming her guilt into a martyrdom experience as she goes out to meet her punishment...
Martyrdom is a lovely idea. You mean she would seek to restore her place in the townsfolk's favour by allowing them to wreak their vengeance on her, knowing they don't know she was instrumental in their victory? For that she would want Martyrdom in some perverse way. Is this her kink? I think so!
 
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